


weary with disasters

by orphan_account



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Instability, Other, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, a happy ending bc im gay and theyre gay and i want them to be happy, thisll probably be overly dramatic but its hamlet so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He kind of wanted to die. His dad was dead, his girlfriend broke up with him two weeks after his dad died, and his mother had married his father’s brother two months after his dad died.Scratch that. He really wanted to die.





	1. Chapter 1

The Elsinore estate was beautiful. It was a rather impressive sight in the daytime, of course, but there was a certain somber sort of beauty that it wielded under the pale moonlight that spoke to Horatio, more so than sunlight reflecting off cold glass windows and warm wooden doors. Of course, Elsinore itself wasn’t the reason Horatio had returned to this place.

As he approached the front gate, he ran into a familiar face and felt a smile spreading across his own. “Marcellus!” The man in question immediately snapped to attention at the sound of his name, but Horatio was more focused on how pale he was, even more so than usual. “What’s up with you?”

“Thank God you’re back, Horatio, this place has been a disaster!” Horatio raised a questioning brow at this and Marcellus quickly continued. “Well, not a disaster exactly, but with Mr. Dane’s death and Gertrude marrying Claudius and now the ghost-“ Marcellus’ voice never wavered as he continued babbling, but Horatio had stopped listening. He had known about Mr. Dane’s death, thanks to Hamlet’s flurry of panicked texts, but he hadn’t known Hamlet’s mother had already remarried. And wait, hold on, had Marcellus mentioned-

“A ghost?” Horatio questioned, suspicion practically dripping from his words. The security staff had been known to drink during shift, though, so who could blame him, really? There was no other explanation for the ghost his friend was now going on about.

“Yes! Ok, look, I know it sounds crazy man, but I swear, I _swear_ I’ve seen a ghost the past couple nights. And that’s not even the weirdest part! The ghost, it, it looks like Mr. Dane!” Marcellus was practically frantic, speaking rapidly, as if getting the words out faster would somehow lend more credibility to them. He was gesturing too, hands moving with a frenetic energy, and talking himself blue in the face and Horatio decided enough was enough.

He grabbed Marcellus’ hands, forcing them, and his words by extension, to a stop. “Mars, listen. You guys always drink during your shifts, I’m sure that’s all this is. It was probably just a wild animal or something that you were too drunk to recognize.” It was certainly a more plausible explanation than ghosts, but Marcellus was already shaking his head vehemently.

“No, see, that’s the thing!” he said emphatically. “I thought that too, because I was maybe a little drunk when I saw it…” Horatio opened his mouth to affirm his earlier explanation, but Marcellus quickly cuts him off. “Just the first time! I didn’t drink a drop the last couple days and he still showed up! I’m _telling_ you, Horatio, it’s Mr. Dane! You can stay here with me, it shows up at midnight each night, you can see for yourself!”

Horatio heaved a heavy sigh, dropping his friend’s hands to pull out his phone. 11:56 pm, and there wasn’t any urgent business Horatio had to attend to. The only reason he was even here didn’t know yet that he was here. Horatio wanted to surprise Hamlet, and he didn’t want to disturb him at this hour on the off chance he was actually asleep for once. Decision made, Horatio put his phone back in his pocket and leaned against the wall next to Marcellus.

“You better not be wasting my time, man. I could be finding a bed right now.”

Marcellus shot him a smirk, the first time Horatio had seen the corners of his mouth go up at all tonight. “Yeah, sure, whatever. The bed you want to occupy is currently empty, so you’d be in one of the shitty guest rooms anyway.” Horatio seriously doubted any room in Elsinore could be accurately described as ‘shitty’, but that wasn’t what had really caught his attention.

“How do you know he’s not in bed?” Horatio demanded.

Marcellus arched a single brow, his blonde locks falling into his face. “Aside from the fact that it’s Hamlet we’re talking about? He’s being lectured by his fath-...uncle.” Horatio winced in sympathy at that, both for the fact Hamlet was being lectured in the first place at this hour and also the deliverer of said lecture. For Gertrude to be remarried at all so soon was…strange, to say the least, but that she married her former husband’s brother? It certainly lacked any sense of tact, but that never was in the Dane’s particular skill set. Strange, how people so required to be good at talking to others could be so poor at managing familial affairs.

“When, exactly, did that whole, _thing_ , happen, by the way?” Horatio questioned. “Hamlet didn’t mention it to me.” Which was weird, because Hamlet took any and every opportunity to text Horatio. The radio silence he’d been given ever since those flurry of texts telling him of Mr. Dane’s death was unusual and worrying. Hamlet always told him everything.

Marcellus looked saddened now, and that only increased Horatio’s worry. Hamlet was well liked by everyone in the estate, even by the business partners his dad had had over for dinner now and then. The staff here were loyal to him, and Horatio was glad to see at least that much hadn’t changed. “Just a couple days ago. And yeah, Hamlet’s taking it just about as badly as you’re imagining.”

Horatio shook his head with a sigh. What was Gertrude thinking, getting married so soon after Mr. Dane’s death? And to Claudius, no less? Horatio could only hope Hamlet hadn’t done anything reckless. He opened his mouth to speak, but was stopped by Marcellus jumping and throwing an arm out to whack Horatio’s shoulder.

“Look, there, there he is!” Marcellus hissed, pointing to the treeline. “I _told_ you!”

Horatio squinted at where his friend was pointing, and was just about to go off on Marcellus for making this up when he suddenly saw something shift.

“What the fuck?” It wasn’t scholarly by any means, or even vaguely intelligent but it was the only response Horatio could come up with because this couldn’t be real. Mr. Dane was dead, everyone knew he was dead, so how was he walking along the woods as if he somehow missed the memo? He was pale, paler than he’d ever been while alive, and dressed in full suit and tie. Horatio suddenly felt a hand push between his shoulder blades, nudging him forward and closer to the ghost. He looked over his shoulder to see Marcellus urging him on.

“He liked you, Horatio! Maybe, maybe he’ll, you know, talk to you! Tell you what he wants so he can…pass on or whatever!” Marcellus accentuated his point with another shove, and Horatio dug his feet into the ground, trying to keep from going any further.

“Dude, no way, I’m not talking to a ghost! What if it, like, possesses me or something?!” Horatio and Marcellus struggled briefly before a sudden chill enveloped both of them. They looked up to see the ghost right in front of them. The most horrific thing about him was his eyes, cold and glassy and blank, almost like a fish. They sent shivers down Horatio’s spine and he could feel Marcellus’ hand trembling against his back. “Uh, Mr-...Mr. Dane?”

There was no response, not even an acknowledgement that Horatio had been heard. The ghost stared Horatio down for what felt like an eternity before looking up to the sky. There were the earliest streaks of dawn painting the horizon and Horatio wondered how the time had passed so quickly. The ghost, with a final glance at the two, vanished. It wasn’t immediate, like a blink and he’s gone, more like he was melting away from the very air. Horatio had never seen anything like it and the entire encounter had him shaking, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

Marcellus gave another gentle nudge, more so to get Horatio’s attention than actually move him. “Believe me now?” he demanded.

Horatio sucked in a breath, then expelled it slowly. He opened his mouth to respond, closed it, then opened it again. After a brief moment, he finally spoke with a voice that wavered and yet still managed to sound utterly determined. “We have to tell Hamlet.” And with that, he went through the gate, pushing past Marcellus’ relief, Barnardo. He heard the two guards rapidly exchanging words before footsteps approached him.

“Horatio, hold up!” Marcellus grabbed Horatio’s arm to stop him, his soft brown eyes flashing with panic. “Horatio, I don’t think that’s a good idea!” Horatio squinted at his friend at that, removing his arm from the other’s grasp and continuing his path towards the estate.

“What are you talking about? It’s his _dad_ , Hamlet deserves to know! He’s bound to see it himself anyway, do you think that’d go over better?” Horatio knew it would be a lot to take in, especially with everything that had happened in such quick succession, but surely being told was better than being surprised by the ghost itself.

“No, yeah, I mean-of course he like, deserves to know, I’m not denying that, it’s just…” Marcellus trailed off and now looked distinctly uncomfortable. Alarm bells started going off in Horatio’s head.

“It’s just _what_?”

Marcellus wrung his hands together, a nervous habit he’d developed in high school and had never quite managed to break. “Hamlet’s not really…doing so well? Mentally, I mean.”

Horatio rolled his eyes, waving a dismissive hand. “I know how Hamlet is, I’ve helped him through his episodes before.”

Marcellus wasn’t buying it. “No, dude, listen, he’s like, bad. Really bad.” They now stood in front of the door of the estate. Marcellus would be heading towards the nearby quarters for the house staff. Before turning down the path, Marcellus grabbed Horatio’s shoulders firmly, maintaining eye contact. “Look, man, just…be careful with him? I know you’ve helped him through stuff before, but I’ve never seen him this…fragile.”

Horatio felt a cold stone of dread settle in his stomach. Marcellus was easily rattled, sure, but he had experience with Hamlet. They were friends, and all of Hamlet’s friends had dealt with his less than stellar mental health at some point. If Marcellus truly thought this was different, if Marcellus was describing _Hamlet_ of all people as fragile? Then something was seriously wrong. Hell, with everything that had happened, all the stress that must be on Hamlet’s shoulders? Horatio couldn’t even truly be surprised if his best friend had had some sort of breakdown. He was just worried.

“I’ll take care of him Mars, I promise. I always do.” They both shared a smile at that, remembering all the times Horatio had dragged a pacing Hamlet to bed and away from whatever poor guard he was ranting to. All the times Horatio had coaxed Hamlet back inside when he was camped out on the ledge of the stone wall surrounding the estate, leaning against one of the statues above the gate and refusing to speak to anyone. Horatio clapped the man’s shoulder, and with a friendly ‘good night’, Marcellus was off to his own bed. Leaving Horatio to face Hamlet alone.

Standing at the door of Elsinore, tall and imposing in the cold light of dawn, for the first time the thought sent nerves coiling in Horatio’s chest.


	2. Chapter 2

Hamlet was vaguely aware of someone talking, but he wasn’t certain if they were talking to him specifically or just to the room in general. He also couldn’t really bring himself to care either way. The only reason he was in this room in the first place was because his mother had asked him to be, and damn him to hell but he still couldn’t say no to his mother. He picked at his fingers restlessly, wanting to go back to his room. The table was mostly filled with various businessmen, with Claudius at the other head of the table and Hamlet’s mother seated to Claudius’ right. There was a radius of chairs surrounding Hamlet that no one dared occupy, as if they could all sense the boy’s dark mood.

A buzz in his pocket made him flinch, and he pulled out his phone with a huff of annoyance. He caught his mother giving him a disapproving glare, but if he never did anything his mother disapproved of then he’d never do anything at all. Any hope of a better distraction went out the window when he saw the alert was from a text message sent by Ophelia. If Hamlet was feeling more reasonable, he would realise that Phe just wanted to talk, that their relationship had ended on good terms and she was still his friend, and as such was worried about him. But Hamlet wasn’t feeling reasonable and was a bit more preoccupied with the fact that his supposed friend had broken up with him two weeks after his dad died. He knew as well as she did that they were better as friends, and that his heart never really belonged to her in the first place, not in that way, at least, but again, not being reasonable. Surely he wasn’t out of line in thinking there was probably a better time for discussing their relationship than when his mother and uncle seemed to be developing theirs.

Swiping away the notification, he looked through all the other ones he had ignored. A text from Barnardo, probably offering to get him drunk again. Various twitter notifications, people insistent on mentioning his handle so he had to see their messages of condolences. Fake, the whole lot of them. They had no idea, _no idea_ , what Hamlet was going through right now, and he was damn well tired of the entire internet trying to pretend they did. Hamlet was severely tempted to tweet out something, an impulsive callout filled with insults, something sure to give his uncle a real headache, but the sounds of various chairs scraping across the floor distracted him before he got the chance.

Looking up from his phone, he saw people shaking hands with Claudius and his mother giving a polite smile when necessary. As the group filed out, they gave Hamlet a polite nod. He knew they all thought nothing of him, saw him as a weak little boy, and a surge of anger washed over him. He was so sick of everyone pretending, and he stuck his tongue out at one of the passersby, just to see how he’d react. The appalled look on his face made his mother’s bruising grip on his wrist worth it.

“Hamlet, please!” his mother scolded, her piercing blue eyes narrowed at him. He scowled up at her, tugging at his arm. She didn’t release it. “Hamlet, we need to talk.” His scowl deepened as he noticed his uncle approaching. Bile rose in the back of his throat as Claudius wrapped an arm around his mother’s waist. A very deliberate arm, as he very carefully maintained eye contact with Hamlet. Gloating, what a bastard! Hamlet gritted his teeth as his mother let go of his wrist in favor of placing her hand over Claudius’.

“Hamlet.” Hamlet met Claudius’ beady brown eyes with his own mismatched ones. The burning anger he’d had quickly fizzled out as he looked into his uncle’s gaze. Even though this was his father’s brother, their eyes were so different. His father’s eyes were a soft brown, warm and caring and kind. Claudius’ eyes were dull, like dirt, usually. When they weren’t, Hamlet was faced with the harsh coldness that swam in them now, the dark, predatory brown that reminded him that he was nothing, that the only good he had had died with his father. Hamlet swallowed nervously and hid his trembling hands underneath the table, refusing to be the first to break eye contact. “Your loyalty to your father’s memory is sweet, but it’s past time you moved on, don’t you think?”

Hamlet stiffened, his eyes cutting over to his mother because surely she didn’t actually expect him to be done grieving the loss of his father after only two months. But his mother simply stood there, silent and smiling, wrapped around Claudius’ arm. The perfect picture of passivity. Hamlet wanted to be angry. He wanted to scream, throw his arms around, slam his hands on the table, do _something_. But all he felt was a crippling emptiness, a lack of emotions altogether. No sadness, no anger, no guilt, nothing. There was nothing at all and Hamlet simply sat there, unable to summon the energy to even lift his eyes from their new view of his lap.

Over his head, Gertrude and Claudius shared a look before the latter bravely broke the thick silence that had descended upon them. “As for those summer courses you want to take-“

Gertrude, perhaps reading her son’s body language right for once and looking to prevent a fight, cut her husband off. She gently cupped Hamlet’s cheek, and he shivered at the unexpected contact, a result of the flinch he’d ruthlessly clamped down on. Gertrude forced Hamlet’s head up, and his mixed eyes met her ocean blue ones. “Hamlet, dear, we’d really love if you’d stay. With us.”

What else could he do? Hamlet forced a smile and felt worms crawling around his insides, digging holes through his stomach and heart as he spoke as steadily as he could, “Yes, mother.” She smiled at him, fragile as glass and fake as her wedding vows, and released his cheek. His mother and uncle left, hand and hand. Gertrude’s wedding band glinted in the harsh lighting of the dining room. The ring Hamlet’s father had given her was gone, probably locked away in some drawer of her jewelry box, never to be opened again.

The worms had finished with his heart, focusing entirely on his stomach. The nausea would be overwhelming if the agony in his chest wasn’t already. It felt as if someone had lit a fire in his heart. This wasn’t the soft warmth of Horatio’s hand in his, or Ophelia’s head resting against his shoulder. This was flames engulfing his entire chest cavity, reducing his ribs to nothing but ash, easily pushing past his meagre defenses and burning his very heart out. It was so many emotions, too many, all of them all at once. Fury, betrayal, sadness, guilt, indignation, disbelief, _fury_. How could his mother remarry so soon? His dad had been buried two months! Two short months and Gertrude had already fallen into someone else’s bed!

But no, that wasn’t quite true, was it? Because it wasn't someone else’s bed. Gertrude had brought her next husband to the very bed she’d slept with his father in, brought her _brother-in-law_ to her previous husband’s bed! As if remarrying after only two months wasn’t bad enough, she had to marry Hamlet’s uncle! It was practically, practically _incest_ and she was utterly shameless about it! Everyone looked at Hamlet strange, questioned his behavior, as if he were the one acting crazy! Maybe his father, maybe he wasn’t a perfect husband, or a perfect business man, or a perfect man, but no one is. No one on this Earth can claim perfection and truly have it in their grasp, certainly no one in this awful town. What was his father’s great crime that he was so hastily kicked under the rug? As if he didn’t matter, as if his death didn’t matter, as if it only affected Hamlet and even still he was being too over dramatic about it.

Hamlet looked down at his shaking hands, turning them over so he could see his wrists. One his typical translucent pale, the other already purpling from his mother’s earlier harsh treatment of it, both with faded white scars disappearing beneath his sleeves. Hamlet was suddenly excruciatingly aware of the weight of the switchblade in his pocket. He could so easily pull it out and end everything right now. No one would miss him. Certainly not Claudius, and Gertrude? She’d entirely moved on from her husband’s death in two months. Hamlet would be forgotten in a fortnight.

He was so absorbed in his own musings that he didn’t hear the sound of someone else approaching. He had no idea anyone else was even in the room until they spoke. “Hamlet? Are you alright?”

Hamlet waved a dismissive hand, figuring it was one of the staff. “Yes, fine.” He considered the working staff of Elsinore to be his family far more than he did his mother or uncle. That being said, Hamlet still had no desire to discuss anything regarding himself with them, or anyone else for that matter. He was about to go back into his thoughts when the voice actually registered in his mind and he was out of his chair immediately. “ _Horatio_!” Testament to how well Horatio knew Hamlet, his arms were already open by the time Hamlet reached him and launched himself into them. They spun with the momentum for a moment before landing, arms wrapped around each other. Hamlet couldn’t stop himself from sinking into the embrace, burying his face in the crook of Horatio’s neck. For the first time since he’d come back from college, Hamlet felt truly at home.

He felt Horatio’s hands ghosting along his ribs, and couldn’t quite suppress his shiver. “Hamlet, you’re so thin! Haven’t you been eating?”

Hamlet smiled into his friend’s shoulder briefly. Of course that would be the first thing the old worrywart would mention. “As much as I always have.”

“So that’s a no, then,” Horatio quipped, a smirk on his lips and fond exasperation sparkling in his warm, brown eyes. Horatio pulled back, taking Hamlet’s hands in his own and Hamlet bit back a wince. It didn’t help him in the end, as Horatio immediately noticed the discoloration on his wrist. His entire facial expression shifted, becoming pinched. “Hamlet, what happened?” he asked softly, cradling the bruised wrist as if there were bone sticking out.

Hamlet felt exhaustion and discomfort and hurt and betrayal all battling for dominance in his chest. Exhaustion must’ve won out, as his shoulders drooped and his mismatched eyes fell shut, a sigh pushing out of his very soul. “Mom was just trying to get my attention. She didn’t do it on purpose, it’s fine.”

Horatio’s heart squeezed at the sight of his dearest friend. He looked _awful_. He was pale and thin, so thin a stiff breeze could topple him. His dark hair was in disarray, curling wildly and flopping down into his face. There were deep, worryingly dark bags under his eyes. His eyes themselves were, in Horatio’s opinion, the most changed. One a soft amber and the other a brilliant blue, they had always shone so bright when they were at university together. Glittering with mirth as he spoke circles around Ros and Guilly. Passion overflowing from their depths as he read any book he could get his hands on. Sparkling as he talked to Horatio in the quiet hours of dawn, when the entire world existed in some place between dream and reality and it was just the two of them. Those eyes, once so brilliant and expressive, were now worn down and exhausted. An old pain looked at Horatio from them, pain and sorrow and stress and mourning so deep that he had no idea how Hamlet was even standing underneath the weight of it all.

What truly made Horatio’s heart crack was the way Hamlet’s voice broke as he gave the same excuse he usually did. Gertrude’s emotional neglect of her son far exceeded any physical pains she provided him, but they were both equally damaging to young Hamlet. Horatio wished with all his heart he could soothe those aches. But nothing could be done about it as long as Hamlet lived here, still under her manipulative thumb. Horatio sighed and stroked the back of Hamlet’s hand with a gentle thumb, smiling sadly at Hamlet’s own paper thin smile.

Marcellus was right. Hamlet was so fragile right now, more so than even Horatio had seen him, and he looked as if one more thing placed on his narrow shoulders would shatter him completely. At the very least, Horatio couldn’t tell him of his father’s ghost just yet. It had already come and gone and, according to Mars, would not return until midnight. Meaning, Hamlet could get some clearly needed rest.

Wrapping Hamlet’s hand in his own, Horatio spoke gently. “Hamlet, you look exhausted. Why don’t we get you in bed?” Hamlet ran his free hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. He offered no protests, which Horatio took as acquiescence. Even after so long away, Horatio still knew the halls of Elsinore as if they were his own, and they were nearing Hamlet’s room when the younger man suddenly started resisting.

“Not my bedroom,” he whispered, voice strained, as if the words took all his effort to speak. “Please, I can’t be that close to them, I can’t, I…”

“Ok, Hamlet, it’s ok,” Horatio soothed, swiftly changing course. A few minutes later they were in one of Elsinore’s many guest rooms, which were just as nice as Horatio remembered them being. He got his friend into the bed and was about to leave for the neighboring room when Hamlet caught his wrist. Horatio raised a questioning brow at him.

“Stay,” was all Hamlet said, but it was also all that needed saying. He had no idea where Ophelia was, no idea why she wasn’t here comforting Hamlet and taking care of him as she always had before, but he frankly didn’t care. She wasn’t there, and that meant that, aside from Horatio, Hamlet had no one there for him. And ignoring all of that, Horatio could never say no to Hamlet in normal circumstances, let alone when he looked so sad and vulnerable.

So Horatio stayed. And if at some point they ended up in each other’s arms, Horatio’s hand in Hamlet’s hair and Hamlet’s lanky arms wrapped around Horatio, well. There was no one else there to mention it. This moment was just them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone reading, and sorry about the delay with this chapter! im still trying to figure out how i want to write ophelia. anyway, hope you enjoy!

When Hamlet opened his eyes, he was standing. Looking around showed that he was in the forest outside of Elsinore and he furrowed his brows. The last thing he remembered was being put in bed by Horatio, when did he even get out of bed? Let alone out of the estate entirely.

A cold wind screamed through the trees, giving Hamlet chills. The forest around him was dark, the only light coming from the moon above him. The branches rustled and whipped around, some twigs even being lifted off the ground and skidding across his arms and legs. There was snow on the ground, also being picked up by the wind. Hamlet looked around, sure that there was a source to this tempest, but saw nothing.

Suddenly there were two focused points of icy cold on his shoulders, and Hamlet froze. A quick glance towards his right showed a pale, almost translucent hand resting on his shoulder. He was sure he’d see the same thing on his left. He didn’t dare move a muscle. He didn’t dare breathe.

It was just as well, as Hamlet had all the air punched out of him when the apparition spoke.

“ _Hamlet_ …”

“D-Dad?!” The cold sense of dread that had frozen him a moment prior released its hold on him and Hamlet whirled around, barely noticing the way the figure’s arms phased through him. Hamlet was suddenly face to face with his father, in the same suit he had been buried in, the same suit Hamlet had seen him buried in. His dad’s eyes were a horrific mixture of cold emptiness and burning anger, and Hamlet knew he was trembling from the sight. The worst thing though, the worst part of all of it was the blood. It was all over his face, pouring from his eyes, his nose, his mouth, even his ears. Hamlet felt tears welling up in his eyes and had to choke down a hysterical laugh at the thought that his dad had looked better as a corpse than whatever he was now.

“ _Find me_ …” The apparition’s voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, originating from the figure itself and also a booming echo in Hamlet’s head. He instinctively covered his ears against the noise, flinching when cold, cold hands enveloped his cheeks.

“ _Hamlet_ …!” His dad sounded in pain, now, and Hamlet’s heart clenched and his stomach twisted and everything felt wrong at hearing his dad sound like that. “ _Find me_ …!”

Lightning cracked across the sky, a deafening roar following immediately after. “ _Hamlet_!”

“Hamlet!”

When Hamlet opened his eyes, he was sitting up.

He was panting, chest aching with the effort of getting the oxygen his panicked, adrenaline-riddled body needed. His heart thumped wildly against his ribs and he could feel his entire body shaking. It wasn’t until he felt a hesitant hand on his shoulder that he realized that last call of his name hadn’t been from his nightmare.

“Shh, calm down, it’s ok,” Horatio soothed from his position knelt next to Hamlet, the hand on Hamlet’s shoulder moving to rub circles between his shoulder blades. “Just breathe, it’s alright.”

“Horatio!” Hamlet gasped. He was wringing his hands together, pressing at the bruise on his wrist to try and ground himself. “I saw, it was, I-“

“Calm down, Hamlet, it was just a nightmare-”

“No!” Hamlet finally turned to meet Horatio’s gaze. His soft brown eyes were filled with worry, but all Hamlet could see was his father gripping his shoulders, bleeding and screaming. “No, it was more than that! I saw my dad, Horatio, he was…he looked _awful_ , and he was bleeding so much, oh, God, Horatio…” Hamlet, embarrassingly enough, felt tears welling in his eyes and he angrily swiped them away. He hated crying in front of anyone, even Horatio. He was so distracted that it wasn’t until he had at least somewhat composed himself that he realized Horatio had frozen against him, utterly silent. Hamlet looked back to his friend and saw he was worryingly pale, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “Horatio…?” Hamlet questioned slowly.

Horatio visibly swallowed, and Hamlet felt his heart rate pick back up. “Hamlet, last night when I arrived, I was talking to Mars.” Hamlet nodded. He and Horatio both liked Marcellus. Of the night watchmen, he was among the most competent, and he was genuinely kind with a good sense of humor. He certainly held Horatio’s favor, as Mars was the one to either alert Horatio whenever Hamlet had climbed the gate or get Hamlet down himself if Horatio wasn’t available. Unlike Barnardo, Horatio’s least favorite as his solution to seeing Hamlet having a bad night was to get him drunk.

“And Mars, well, he, uh…filled me in, on everything that’s, um. Happened.” Hamlet winced. He really didn’t want to talk about his mother and uncle right now. Or ever, actually, though he was sure Horatio would bring it up at some point. “Don’t worry, it’s not about them. But, uh, Mars mentioned something…”

Hamlet felt anxiety twirling in his heart. Horatio was usually so good with words, and for him to be so nervous he was tripping over them… “What is it, Horatio?”

“He said he saw a ghost, Hamlet. Um, your dad’s ghost.” Hamlet felt everything stop for a moment. He didn’t feel real. This couldn’t be real. He had to still be dreaming, right? There was no way this was real, but Hamlet knew from the pain in his wrist as he pressed on it that he was awake.

“Ok, wait,” Hamlet spoke quickly, “Mars still gets drunk on his shift sometimes, right? He-” But Horatio was already shaking his head, and Hamlet pressed harder against the bruise on his wrist.

“I asked him about that right away. He said he stopped for a couple nights and still saw the ghost. And…” Horatio trailed off, looking uncomfortable and uncertain, as if he weren’t sure whether or not he should continue.

“And?” Hamlet questioned. Horatio looked down and finally noticed Hamlet pressing against the bruise. He gently grabbed Hamlet’s hand with both of his, pulling it away from the bruised wrist and enveloping it. It worked just as well at keeping Hamlet grounded as pressing against the bruise did, as the feeling of Horatio’s hands on his was taking up most of his focus.

“Well, Mars said the ghost shows up at midnight every night. And since, since it was already, like, 11:50 something, I figured I’d wait and prove him wrong right then and there.”

Hamlet relaxed somewhat. “Great, then-”

“I saw him, too, Hamlet.” Horatio cut Hamlet off, and the younger man immediately tensed back up. “I waited until midnight, and he appeared, just like Mars said he would.”

“You…you saw, you saw him? My dad, you saw my dad?” Horatio nodded, and Hamlet took a moment to compose himself, to brace himself for the answer to his next question. “And was he…did he look…did he look in pain? Was he, y’know, bleeding?”

Horatio shook his head, looking horrified. “No, Hamlet, no, he didn’t look to be in pain at all! That was just a nightmare, I promise. I mean, his eyes were kind of creepy, but other than that he looked totally normal! Well, that, and the weird translucent ghostly paleness thing, but that’s obvious.” Hamlet felt a weak smile tugging at his lips. The situation wasn’t funny at all, but it was somehow comforting to see that Horatio still tended to ramble when he was nervous. And it was far better than the stuttering uncertainty of a few minutes ago. “He looked like…almost as if he were looking for something.”

“ _Find me_ …”

Hamlet felt a shiver go down his spine. “Me.”

Horatio looked into Hamlet’s mismatched eyes, his brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“He’s looking for me, Horatio. You know he’s looking for me.”

Horatio shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “We don’t know that, we don’t know for _certain_ that he’s looking for you-”

Hamlet brought his free hand up to rest on top of their still interlocked hands, an exhausted expression on his face. Horatio had hoped getting him to bed last night would have eased some of that, but the bags underneath his eyes seemed darker now, impossibly enough. “He came to me last night, Horatio. That wasn’t a dream. He came to me and he told me to find him, and he’s been wandering around the estate at night.” Hamlet gazed into Horatio’s eyes, unwavering. “You _know_ he’s looking for me.”

“Hamlet, you’ve - all of us have been under a lot of stress with everything that’s happened, it’s entirely possible this is just that stress getting to all of us. I mean, come on, _ghosts_?” Horatio was clearly grasping at straws, but Hamlet was determined now. Nothing would stop him.

“I have to see him. This ghost you and Mars saw, I have to see him myself.” And Horatio wanted to argue further, but he knew Hamlet better than anyone, and he knew that look in his eyes. There wasn’t any stopping Hamlet from confronting this…ghost, demon, vision, whatever it was.

Heaving a long suffering sigh, Horatio said, “Then at least try and get more rest? The ghost won’t show up until midnight, and it’s only,” he fumbled around on the side table for his phone, “god, it’s 4:27, you got a couple hours of sleep at most.” Hamlet ran a hand anxiously through his tousled curls before nodding slowly.

“Ok, Horatio, ok.” Hamlet eased himself back down as Horatio set his phone back down on the table. Hamlet watched as his best friend’s brown eyes slowly slid shut, and Hamlet only had to wait several minutes before Horatio’s breathing had evened out and he was asleep. Carefully, so as not to wake his friend, Hamlet sidled out of the bed. He looked at his rumpled dress shirt and pants with distaste. His mother had insisted on him dressing up for the dinner last night, and that never was Hamlet’s strong point. He’d never felt comfortable in clothes like that, but the source of his discomfort was just as likely to be his uncle and mother and not the clothes.

Thinking of what would most anger his mother, he selected black slacks, another white dress shirt, and a black vest over that. Mourning clothes, because despite what his mother and Claudius wanted to pretend, Hamlet’s dad had only been dead a couple months. And his necklace, of course. He kept it hidden under his shirt, because he knew, he _knew_ Claudius or his mother or both would say something about it otherwise. A simple, long silver chain with a simple round pendant. Nothing comment worthy there.

No, what would anger his mother and uncle would be the inside of the pendant. It clicked open to reveal two pictures. One of the three of them, Hamlet, his dad, and his mother. Professionally done, one of the few professionally done photographs they had with all three of them in it. The other one Hamlet cherished far more. A picture his mother had taken on her phone, when Hamlet was younger and there were no issues between his parents and they were all happy. They had gone camping, only in the woods just outside of the estate, but to Hamlet it may as well have been a whole other country. The picture captured him and his dad looking at the stars as Mr. Dane attempted to teach Hamlet the constellations.

Hamlet clicked the locket shut with a sigh, tucking it under his shirt. He grabbed his own phone from its spot next to Horatio’s and unlocked it, ignoring the multitude of notifications. Fake sympathy from equally fake people, Hamlet had no interest in interacting with any of them. However, he did need to talk to Ophelia. He knew she hadn’t broken up with him out of malice, that she was still one of his closest friends alongside Horatio. He ran a hand through his tousled locks, bringing it to rest across his eyes. He didn’t have the energy to have the drawn out conversation he knew they needed to have, but he could at least stop being an asshole to her and respond.

He sent her a quick message, apologising for being a dick and telling her Horatio had arrived last night. That he was taking care of Hamlet and everything was fine. That, despite how he’d been acting, he did understand why she broke up with him. It was just…hard, with everything happening all at once. He thanked her for still being his friend, for her saint like patience. He honestly had no idea why Phe still put up with him.

That done, he locked his phone and put it in his pocket. He left the room, easing the door shut with as little noise as possible. The halls of Elsinore were eerily quiet, as no one besides Hamlet and the skeleton crew were up at this hour. He crept through the halls, avoiding all the staff members. If any saw him, they would coax him to rest, and he knew they meant well, that they were just concerned, but he didn’t want to deal with kindness right now. Hamlet knew it was something he should be grateful for, proof that some people in this house still cared for him, but it rubbed him the wrong way.

He went outside, relishing in the immediate drop in temperature. Horatio worried whenever Hamlet stayed outside too long without any sort of coat, but Hamlet loved the cold. With the way his thoughts had been muddled, jumping in and out of focus, the alertness the cold provided him made any repercussions well worth it. He wandered out to the gate, nodding at the guard. Hamlet didn’t know him as well, but he believed the man’s name was Francis. He had seen him in passing several times. All the staff knew Hamlet, if for no other reason than because of his bizarre habits. Which meant Hamlet could claim his throne atop the gate without any trouble.

Here, outside the cloying walls of Elsinore, he felt as if he could breathe. The house’s walls had shrunk, pressing in on him and leaving Hamlet feeling trapped. He had seen ghosts long before Horatio had mentioned one. Elsinore was full of them. Ghosts of whispers following Hamlet wherever he went. Ghosts of former, genuine happiness in the lines around his mother’s eyes. Ghosts of his father in his uncle’s cheekbones and cold, dark eyes. Ghosts had been chasing Hamlet through the halls of his former home for the past two months. What was one more?

Hamlet pulled out his phone and checked the time. 5:13, and the ghost wouldn’t show up until midnight. He had a long day of waiting, but he could keep himself entertained thinking about how angry his mother would get if he spent the whole day sitting here. Hamlet put his phone back in his pocket and settled against the statue behind him, wrapping his arms around himself. A strong wind picked up, brushing through Hamlet's curls and rustling the trees of the forest that surrounded Elsinore. Despite his earlier certainty, Hamlet felt a sense of dread in his heart.


	4. Chapter 4

When Horatio woke up to cold sheets and empty space next to him, his immediate reaction was panic. He remembered going to bed with Hamlet last night, remembered waking up in the middle of the night to Hamlet thrashing. Horatio’s heart clenched as he saw in his mind his dear friend’s face twisted in grief and fear and pain. Hamlet had been whimpering and Horatio could’ve sworn he saw tears in the corners of his tightly clenched eyes. The sight broke Horatio’s heart, and he had instinctively reached out, wanting to comfort Hamlet and wishing he could wipe away the lines stress had carved into his face.

Reaching over for his phone, Horatio noticed Hamlet’s was missing from the nightstand. So Hamlet hadn’t just stepped out for something. Horatio hoped his friend had at least listened to him and gotten some sleep before wandering off. He checked the time, 8:36, and notifications on his phone. He had a text from Francis received at 5:09 this morning telling him Hamlet was outside on the gate. Horatio sighed, knowing the timestamp meant that Hamlet must’ve left the bedroom almost immediately after agreeing to rest more. He was probably out there without a coat, too, and it was freezing out.

Horatio grabbed a coat from his bag and put it on and began making his way towards Hamlet’s room. The halls of Elsinore were quiet, eerily so. He knew the morning staff of the estate were up and about by now, but there was no one here. Horatio even thought he saw traces of dust on the edges of paintings. It was as if this section of the house, the living quarters of the Dane family, were being avoided by the staff. Horatio shook the thoughts away. All that mattered to him right now was Hamlet, and he was sure he was overreacting anyway. He hadn’t been here in a long time, it was entirely possible the staff had changed their cleaning cycle. He arrived at Hamlet’s door, across from Gertrude’s, and Claudius’ now, room, and opened it. The sight of his best friend’s room froze him in the doorway with shock.

It was a disaster. Hamlet had never been a particularly neat or tidy person, but this went beyond that. Drawers were yanked almost entirely out of his dresser, the clothes within either strewn across the floor or dangling precariously from the edge of the drawer. There were crumpled up pieces of paper all over his desk and a pile surrounding his trash can, as if he had tried to get them into the can and hadn’t bothered to pick them up when he’d missed. Hamlet’s beloved books were scattered messily throughout his bookshelf. Some were knocked on the floor, open and face down. The pages were surely being bent, something Horatio knew Hamlet hated. What truly worried Horatio, and simultaneously broke his heart, was the empty space over his desk and bed.

Hamlet had never been interested in business. He had never wanted the company his father ran. He hadn’t cared about the economics involved in running a company, he hadn’t cared about the politics involved in running a company, Hamlet hadn’t cared about any of it. He’d always been more interested in literature, in poetry and theatre, but Hamlet had suppressed those interests. His father had dreamed of Hamlet taking over the company, so that’s what Hamlet focused on. He changed his major and dropped most of the classes he loved, keeping only a theatre history course. Hamlet would do anything for the approval of his father, even if it meant being somebody he wasn’t.

But Hamlet had always kept evidence of these interests in his room. Playbills from shows he’d managed to sneak to, without his father or the press ever knowing. Endless pages of writings and scribbles of poetry taped to the wall, constantly being edited or removed or added to. Even some doodles and sketches he had done, though art wasn’t something Hamlet was particularly interested in. And Hamlet had posters of bands over his bed, a trait Horatio had always found endearingly normal.

Now, there was just empty space. Blank walls, the only sign there had been anything there at all being pieces of paper still taped to the wall from where Hamlet had apparently torn them down. The worry that had long since taken root in Horatio’s heart settled in a little more firmly, and he could only be glad he was there. He could help Hamlet and hope that nothing irreparable had broken.

With newfound determination to help his best friend survive this, Horatio carefully picked through the mess of the room and grabbed a coat from the closet. He then quickly made his way to the front door. Horatio had only been here for a night, and he hadn’t even ran into Gertrude or Claudius, but he already felt as if he were suffocating within these walls. He couldn’t imagine how Hamlet must have felt, being stuck here for two months and unable to escape his mother and uncle. Being constantly reminded of what he had lost. No wonder Hamlet was so eager to meet this ghost.

Finally at the doors, Horatio pushed them open and was immediately hit with how cold it was. There was a light flurry of snow falling, adding to the light dusting already spread across the earth. The wind was biting, and Hamlet had been out here for hours. Horatio hurried to the gates, heart rate picking up as he saw the silhouette of his friend perched on the wall. His back was to the estate and his legs were dangling over the edge. Horatio gave a quick nod to Francis before climbing up onto the wall next to Hamlet. He didn’t turn to look at Horatio. He didn’t speak. He didn’t acknowledge that he even knew Horatio was there at all.

Horatio wasn’t bothered. He knew Hamlet tended to get lost in his own head, and he was more worried about how much his friend was shivering. Hamlet didn’t react as Horatio manhandled his lanky arms into the sleeves of the coat he’d brought out. As Horatio fumbled with the buttons, he looked up into Hamlet’s face. Out in the daylight, he looked even more pale, and that only accentuated the darkness smeared under his eyes. Those mismatched eyes briefly met with Horatio’s burning amber ones before they skittered away, as if afraid of direct contact. Finished with the buttons, Horatio dropped his hands to grasp the younger man’s trembling ones. He rubbed at them, knowing the trembling wasn’t just because of the cold but still hoping the contact helped in some small way.

Hamlet slumped forward, resting his forehead against the crook of Horatio’s neck. Horatio dropped one of Hamlet’s hands in favor of wrapping an arm around those narrow, shaking shoulders. Hamlet, in turn, loosely gripped at the front of Horatio’s shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Hamlet whispered, his grip tightening. Horatio brushed a thumb across the knuckles he still held, looking sadly down at the tangle of black curls that rested against him. He didn’t know if Hamlet was talking to him, or if it was a response to some interior dialogue with himself, or if it was something else altogether.

Experience had long since taught him not to question such things. He simply squeezed Hamlet’s shoulders, told him it was okay, and rested his chin gently against the top of Hamlet’s head. He wished there was something more he could do, wished he could take Hamlet’s pain away. His mental health had never been great, and he’d had bad days at Wittenberg, but he’d been overall happy. He’d practically glowed as he talked about the things he was truly passionate about, and there was nothing in this world Horatio wouldn’t do to give that happiness back to Hamlet.

As if reading his thoughts, Hamlet broke the silence around them with a request. “Please, my dear Horatio, talk to me. About anything, just, I can’t handle the quiet.” Despite the circumstances, Horatio smiled. There had been many nights in their dorm when Hamlet had asked the very same thing of him. If he closed his eyes and ignored the feeling of cold stone beneath him, he could almost fool himself into thinking they had never left. That Hamlet wasn’t experiencing some sort of breakdown caused by the sudden death of his father and they were happy.

The sun still sat high in the sky. It would be a long day if Hamlet planned to spend all of it out here, but Horatio knew there was nowhere else he’d rather be than at his friend’s side. He opened his mouth and began to speak of all that Hamlet had missed in the two months he’d been gone.

♛

Hamlet had long since decided that in Horatio’s arms was the best place in the world. He had been wound so tight ever since he came back to Elsinore, the lines of his shoulders permanently tensed, he had forgotten what it felt like to be relaxed. Having Horatio to lean against, telling stories of stupid stunts Ros and Guilly had pulled, Hamlet felt at ease. He even found himself laughing at some points, albeit weakly. The time seemed to fly, and before either of them knew it, it was half past ten at night and Marcellus had come out for his shift.

Hamlet felt the tension practically drip back down his spine as he suddenly remembered why they were out here. His dad needed him, and though he wasn’t sure what unfinished business his dad could possibly want him to handle, it was his duty as a son to see it through. He couldn’t let himself get distracted. Today had been the best day he’d had since hearing his dad had died, but it had to end.

Hamlet reluctantly straightened, feeling Horatio’s arm drop from around his shoulders. Horatio was watching him, concern etched into the lines of his face. Horatio had been looking at him like that since he arrived. It wasn’t anything new, of course. Horatio looked at Hamlet like that more than half the times he looked at him. It was familiar. Hamlet grabbed his friend’s hands, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze before resignedly dropping to the ground. He knew Horatio would follow him, so Hamlet just focused on Marcellus.

“Hey, Mars!”

The guard jumped before whirling to face Hamlet, a hand on his chest. “Jeez, dude, make some noise when you walk!”

Hamlet rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. Tell me about this ghost!”

Marcellus cut his eyes over to a space above Hamlet’s shoulder, probably at Horatio. He looked disapproving, but when his bright blue eyes shifted back to Hamlet there was worry swimming in their depths.

“Well,” Marcellus began hesitantly, “I’m sure Horatio here’s told you as much as I know.” Hamlet simply stared at his friend, clearly expecting more. Mars sighed heavily, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Whatever it is, it always shows up at midnight.”

“How long has it been appearing?”

“Only for, like, a few days?”

“And it looks like-” Hamlet’s voice cracked, and he snapped his mouth shut with a click. He felt Horatio put a hand on his shoulder and swallowed thickly before continuing. “It looks like my dad?”

Marcellus looked over at Horatio again, and Hamlet felt annoyance bubbling in his chest. He knew they meant well, that they were worried, but he hated being coddled. He had to see this ghost, talk to this ghost. He had to, and he would, regardless of what Mars or Horatio told him.

“Yeah,” Mars finally responded. “Yeah, Horatio and I both got a clear look at it and…yeah, it was Mr. Dane.” Hamlet nodded, feeling Horatio’s hand slip from his shoulder as he began pacing. He checked his phone. 11:38. The day had passed quickly in the company of his dearest friend, but now that his focus was solely back on the ghost, time seemed to crawl by for Hamlet. He vaguely heard Marcellus clear his throat. “You do realize your parents aren’t happy with you, right?”

Hamlet didn’t even break his rhythm. “Not my parents. That swine is nothing like my father. And besides, they’re probably too drunk by now to even recognize me.”

Horatio furrowed his brow at that. “What? Since when did your mom drink?” Hamlet didn’t reply, too lost in his own thoughts to even realize Horatio had spoken.

Marcellus, recognizing that the youngest of the three wasn’t going to respond, filled the silence. “Apparently since marrying Claudius. The first time I ever saw her drink at all was at the wedding reception.”

Hamlet tuned out their conversation by focusing on the count of his steps. He didn’t want to think about the fact that his mother, who he’d never seen drink a drop of alcohol his whole life, was suddenly getting drunk with her brother-in-law turned husband almost every night. He didn’t want to think about the fact that they were practically flaunting their joy in his face, as if asking why he couldn’t just move on and be happy for them now that a couple months had passed. He didn’t want to think about how his room was trashed because it was directly across from his mother’s and he heard every damn thing and had wanted just five seconds where he didn’t.

Hamlet’s focus was mercifully pulled from his thoughts when the wind suddenly picked up. He froze, a strong sense of déjà vu hitting him as he remembered his nightmare. “Mars, where does it normally come from?” he asked, voice raised to be heard over the howling air.

Marcellus shrugged, tense from the sudden change. “I don’t know, man, it just…shows up! Like, one second there’s nothing and then the next it’s just, y’know, there!” Hamlet was about to respond, demand a real answer because there had to be some sort of pattern to it, when Horatio stepped between them.

“Guys, look!” Turning to where his friend was pointing, Hamlet practically felt all the blood drain from his face as he took in the sight. The same suit Hamlet had seen twice before, at the funeral and in his dream. The figure was pale, translucent, far enough away that Hamlet couldn’t make out the expression on its face. However, it was close enough for Hamlet to recognize that face.

“Dad…” It came out as a strangled whisper, a call Hamlet had as much control over as he did the rapid beating of his heart. Despite its low volume, the apparition turned to Hamlet and his friends immediately. Hamlet locked eyes with his father for the first time in months. They didn’t look right. Horatio had described them as akin to fish eyes, but the sight still sent shivers down his spine. Trying to channel the strength his father had always told him to wield, Hamlet straightened and met the ghost head on. “Dad! Talk to me! Whatever…whatever it is, whatever thing you’ve left undone, tell me! It’s my duty as a son to hear it and finish it!”

The ghost didn’t respond. It didn’t even move. The only noise was that of the wind shaking the trees. Then, it began to float backwards towards the woods, beckoning Hamlet with a single raised hand to follow. The dark haired man didn’t even realize he was moving until a hand grasping his arm brings him to a halt.

“Hamlet!” Horatio hissed, tightening his grip on Hamlet’s arm as if scared he’d run away if given the chance. “What are you doing?!”

Hamlet tried to free his arm, looking over his shoulder at his friend. “He wants me to follow him! I have to!”

“You, uh, really don’t.” Marcellus added, stepping up as if prepared to grab Hamlet’s other arm. “Like, at all.”

“Yeah, at all,” Horatio agreed. “We don’t even know what it is! What if it’s, if it isn’t a ghost at all! It could be a demon for all we know!”

Hamlet tugged at his arm again, harder this time, shooting a quick glance back at the ghost to see it was waiting for him. That same insistent hand demanded he move. “What’s it going to do, Horatio? Even if it is a demon, what can it actually do to me? I couldn’t care less about being killed!” Hamlet’s tone was biting and cold. “What, is it going to taint my soul?”

Horatio grabbed the arm in his grip with his other hand, needing both to keep Hamlet in place as he struggled. “It could possess you! It could, it could possess you and make you jump off a cliff, or, or drive you crazy, and I know you don’t care about yourself but I do, damnit! I can’t let you do this!”

“It’s my _dad_!” With a strong yank, Hamlet finally freed his arm, almost tumbling to the ground with the momentum. He righted himself and turned back to look at the ghost before looking at Horatio again with his sad, mismatched eyes. “It’s my dad.” Contrasting with the yell from just a moment before, Hamlet now sounded tired and resigned, but just as determined. “Whether it’s a ghost, or a demon, or a hallucination, or _whatever_ , it’s my dad. I have to hear what he came back to say.” And with that, before Horatio or Marcellus could say another word, Hamlet took off after the figure and disappeared into the trees.

There were several tense moments of silence between Marcellus and Horatio before the former broke it.

“Do we…I mean, should we…what should we do?” He was wringing his hands together.

Horatio sighed, squeezing Marcellus’ shoulder before walking towards the woods. “We have to follow him. He’s not making wise decisions right now.” Horatio buttoned up his collar against the screaming wind, frowning as it seemed to almost be pushing him deeper into the shadowy trees. “Something’s not right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear hamlet and the ghost were supposed to talk this chapter and then 2000 words passed without the ghost even showing up hsndf. they will next chapter, promise. thanks to everyone reading!


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